Pocket Watch
by firespark124
Summary: It's been three years since Blaine and Kurt have seen each other. What happens when they, despite their best efforts, remember again?
1. Chapter 1

Blaine Anderson was an absolute mess and he knew it. It was ten-thirty on a Saturday morning (he could tell by the giant red letters blinking at him from across the darkened room) and he had a god-awful hangover that left him with a headache the size of the Middle East. But then, that was normal. He was still wearing his work shirt from yesterday, although he was quite pantsless, only now it was ripped in several places, completely askew and ruffled, and he was in a completely unfamiliar apartment with a strange man. But that too was normal. The thing that made him truly aware that he was an absolute mess was that he knew that he had a wedding to be at in six hours, had been fully aware of it the night before and had promised himself to stay sober … and still had wound up in some guy's bed with no choice but to make the Walk of Shame back home, though he had no idea how to get there since he didn't know where he was. Hearing snores coming from the unfamiliar body beside him, he crept out of the bed, scrambled to find his pants, tie, and coat, then snuck out of the apartment without awakening him.

He stumbled about until he found the elevator; he did not trust himself to take the stairs. He'd made that mistake hung over before and it had landed him in the emergency room twice. Pressing the greasy button for the first floor, he sighed. He had six hours to completely clean himself up and get to the Upper East Side in time to help David out for his wedding. Really, it was very sweet. Despite the drastic change in their relationship after college, David had still asked Blaine to be a groomsman. It was very nice to know that David still cared about him enough to ask him to be part of his wedding. Karen was a charming girl and everything that David deserved, and he was happy for him. So why in the world had he broken his oath to himself to not drink? Unfortunately, he was quite fully aware of why, and just the idea had him craving a shot of vodka. He was extremely worried about the guest list.

Boy was that the understatement of the century.

The doorman leered at him as he walked through the rather unclean lobby that smelled vaguely of cat piss. He did his best to ignore it. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that a doorman made fun of him or hit on him after a drunken night out. It didn't really matter anymore. He winced harshly as he opened the door. It was sunny out. Of course. His brain pounded violently against his skull as the unforgiving rays of light kicked him in the face. Squinting, he looked around. Thank heaven, he was near Central Park. He knew how to get to a subway station from here. He sauntered off in the right direction, hunching over in the hopes that he could turn invisible. His life really had been miserable for a while. But he had never changed it. It kept the pain at bay.

Thankfully, before his mind could wander off into that dark and cutting place, he found himself on the subway. The train always reassured him, despite the extremely loud clickity-clacks that set his teeth and headache on edge. On the train in New York City, no matter what time or where, he was guaranteed not to be the craziest or most shameful person in the vehicle. That being said, it wasn't rare that a mother would pull their child a little bit closer at the sight of him. He couldn't blame them. He must have looked like a hobo with his tattered, stained shirt, wrinkled pants and indubitably insane curls. It really was a miracle that he still had his job as a music critic in the Times with the trouble he got in. Really, it was very lucky that they liked him so much, very lucky that he was their most popular critic. Why? He wasn't sure exactly. But he was, and for now, that was all that mattered. His job was his only moderately healthy release. It was better than the alcohol anyway, although he always had some of that on hand just in case his work wasn't enough. Because his job may have been his release, but alcohol was his escape.

He walked mechanically through the sliding doors when his stop came. He smiled somewhat bitterly. He remembered how it had felt when he first got here, to the marvelous glittering Concrete Jungle. Young, naïve and not alone … no, bad Blaine. That is a very bad place to let yourself visit. Thinking instead of a new band he had recently reviewed called "Afterthought," he, as casually as a man suffering from a master hangover could, walked into his building.

"Good morning, Mr. Anderson," the doorman, Nigel, smiled at him.

"Good morning, Nigel. How are you?"

"Fine, sir, thank you. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"No, thank you Nigel, I'm going to try to get in a few more winks."

"Fair enough. Have a lovely day."

"Thank you, you too."

Blaine smiled to himself as he stepped into the elevator. Nigel was his favorite doorman, extremely polite, to the point, and tactful enough not to inquire about his evening activities. It was one of those things that simply made people more likeable, politeness. He wished he had more of it. He took out his keys and opened the door to apartment 614. _Home sweet home, _he thought with a bittersweet feeling. His apartment, although to most people something similar to a haven, was not his favorite place. He spent little time in it, mostly because the longer he was there, the more likely it was that he would stumble upon something that would force him to remember. That was the very last thing that he wanted. He walked across his living room to the kitchen, where picked up off the very messy counter a bottle of Tylenol. He got himself a nice glass of water and swallowed a couple of pills. He knew that if he wanted to be at all presentable, he'd need at least another two hours of sleep. He dragged his feet to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed, well-prepared for a dreamless nap.


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt Hummel had nothing left to lose. Audition after audition and the furthest he'd ever gotten was part of a chorus on an Off-Off-Broadway show. Pathetic. Meanwhile, his former kind of best friend Rachel Berry had moved away from New York to try to make it in Los Angeles. He hadn't seen Mercedes in a year, though they occasionally Skyped. His dad and Carole were still in Ohio and Finn, from his understanding, had had another change of heart and had followed Rachel to L.A. to be together. So basically, he was alone in New York City with nothing but a busted dream, an apartment that he could barely afford rent for, and a broken heart. But he was used to all that. He'd been living like that for three years.

Walking home from his job as a waiter at Alma 33, he sighed. How had he allowed himself to resort to waiting other people? Tips were so low, but working conditions were alright. Just the people that he served were so annoying, and it was not in his nature to be nice to people who didn't treat him kindly. That had been knocked out of him in high school. He had briefly worked at The Tea Room, but … but working there had proved too painful. Serving people coffee … it brought back memories that he didn't want around. And it certainly didn't help every time someone ordered a medium drip. Which happened at least twice a day. So he quit. He tried to rid himself of anything in his life that reminded him of … of _him._ What he couldn't bear to rid himself of he hid in places around the apartment that he was unlikely ever to look. It was better that way.

Walking into his shabby apartment building he grimaced. He remembered for the millionth time that this was not what New York was supposed to be. He climbed four flights of stairs (the elevator was broken again) to his apartment … if you could call it that. It was literally two rooms; a bathroom and everything else. And not in a fashionable way. In a small and cramped way. It saddened him. This wasn't supposed to happen.

What went wrong, he wondered. What was his first mistake? Looking back, his first mistake may have been moving out here with Rachel and … _him._ Rachel was just too … competitive, too naïve, too blinded by her own ambition, and too self-absorbed. And then … no. He would not let his mind go there.

He dragged his feet to the corner of the room where his bed was patiently waiting. The thing that he loved most in this city. He fell face-first into the cushy mattress. He was unbelievably grateful that he got off work early. He had gotten an invitation for David's wedding to some girl he didn't know named Karen and he fully intended to go. He hadn't seen David since … well he hadn't seen David in three years. He was looking forward to seeing him again. He was just worried about whoever else may be there. And even if … _he _wasn't there (which, no matter what he told himself, was unlikely), there were bound to be questions. But his plan for the night was to avoid the subject, and, if at all possible, avoid him. He would leave as early as he could and stay as far away from the biggest reminders of his past as possible. Maybe it was a bad idea to go … but he had already RSVP'd and he really did want to see David and meet his new wife, despite the likely consequences.

After a half-hour much needed emotionally rebalancing snooze, he pulled himself out of bed and figured that he had better start getting ready. He hadn't rented a tux, but he was sure that he had an old one somewhere. It would just take a little digging around to find it. He rummaged through several drawers before he finally found it. It was a little dusty, but other than that, it was fine. He gently lifted it out of the drawer and was about to walk away when he saw something that made his blood feel like ice in his veins.

A photo of _him_ with cut out letters underneath it spelling out a single world.

_Courage._

Seven letters and a picture was all it took to send Kurt into a montage of memories, good and bad, memories that he had just spent three years trying to block out. One word and a photograph and everything came flooding back, hitting him like a wave of unwanted emotions. Kurt stood frozen to the spot as the wave, nay, ocean hit him. Suddenly, as though possessed, he took one step closer to pick up the photo, not noticing the dusty old tuxedo fall to the ground. Holding it almost as if it were a delicate snowflake about to melt away forever he walked back over to his bed and sat down. The face was so familiar, so warm, so beautiful. The word was so comforting, so reminiscent, so strong. He found his willpower melting as he stared into the hazel eyes that were not brought to justice by the ink on paper. And then, without warning, the tears started to fall and, no matter how he tried, he could not stop them. Something went wrong in their relationship, but for the life of him he could not remember what it was. All he wanted was to see him again, to hold him again, to feel loved by him again. The salty drops of water steadily flowed from his glass eyes, now staining the pillow that he was holding to his face in an attempt to create a dam. Before he knew it he could not hold it in. He screamed. He screamed and shouted and cursed. Then finally, as he started to calm down, he whispered.

"Where did my love go?"

Meanwhile, not too far away, Blaine woke up.


End file.
